I look up at Eleanora and her beaming expression. "Sit there. In front of the window."
Obediently, she pulls up the armchair to the window.
I perch on the sill and begin sketching wildly, my fingers dancing over paper as I shade, draw and sketch. Eleanora is a beautiful girl, and on paper, no one can tell she cannot speak. I keep sketching until my hand cramps, barely looking at the paper as I draw because I'm too preoccupied with committing Eleanora's features to memory. She's the only model I have here, and sketching her has filled me with a calm understanding of her silent beauty.
Once I'm done, I set the sketchbook down, unwilling to look at what I've created. With a heavy sigh, I lean back against the windowsill.
Eleanora's eyes sparkle as she points to the sketchbook, putting her hands together in a praying motion. She wants to see what I've done.
I'm amazed that someone is interested in my creations. My parents never cared at all.
Reluctantly, I pick up the book and show it to her without taking a proper look at my drawing myself. Instead, I focus my attention on Eleanora and the way her face changes as she inspects my creation.
First, there's curiosity. Soon, it changes into delight and surprise as she glances at me, as if she's unsure the drawing is really my work.
But it certainly is, and she saw me finish it.
Eleanora seems impressed, and she mimics a chef's kiss, making me giggle as she passes the sketchbook back.
The rest of the day, I can't stop drawing. The pages of my sketchbook once flat and thin, are becoming thicker, filled with little drawings of things around the house. I'm too scared to pick up the canvas just yet—I never got the chance to work on one when I was living at home. But the desire to continue almost makes me dizzy, and finally, when Eleanora's gone to bed, and locked the door of my prison behind her, I set up a station to paint in the salon.
I mix some paints in shades of nude and dark grey and stare at the empty canvas. I don't need to think about my subject, I already know who's going to appear on the blank canvas before I touch the brush tip to it.
Adrian's image comes to life in front of me. I paint his hair first, moving on to his face, his lips, his shoulders. I leave the eyes for last because they will be the hardest to paint. Not because I'm afraid I won't do them justice, but because my heart is already pounding in fear and I'm merely staring down at his likeness, not even the real thing.
The eyes take two hours, and by the time I'm done, it's light outside and Eleanora has entered again. She sees me painting and politely makes sure not to interrupt, though I catch her stealing glances at my creation as she busies herself by tidying my rooms.
I continue painting until I'm finished, ignoring my stomach complaining loudly about skipping breakfast and dinner. I finish up, but I can't bear to look at the painting for longer than a second. I quickly put it away to dry and avert my gaze any time I walk by it while Eleanora prepares lunch for me.
When I reach for a piece of bread, her fingers wrap around my wrist. Surprised, I glance up at her to see her biting her lower lip.
"What is it?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she makes sure we're alone and pulls something from her apron.
An envelope.
My eyes widen as she hands it over to me. "What is this, Eleanora?"
She motions for me to open it, but I don't need to. I recognize my brother Luigi's handwriting on the front, spelling out my name. I nearly choke as I tear the letter open. I have no idea how Eleanora got her hands on this letter, but before I can question her, I need to know Luigi is okay.
I tear into the paper, my eyes scanning the words. Luigi speaks of his anger, of the pure hatred he has for Adrian and the rest of the Bernardis. He promises to save me, tells me Eleanora will be my gateway for the outside world, but I mustn't make anyone suspect a thing. After I read the letter, I must burn it.
There is a whole paragraph about Vitto and how much he loves and misses me, but I can't bring myself to do more than skim it. The point is, they're both alive and plotting their revenge in a small village an hour away from here where no one will find them.
They're safe. So why am I feeling even more tense than I was before?
Once I'm done, the letter stays in my lap and I stare emptily into the distance. I don't know how to feel about this development. In a way, I'm freer being Bernardi's prisoner than I ever was at home. But Bruno wants to kill me, and Adrian wants to hurt me. Well, I'm not letting either of them go through with their wicked plans.
Eleanora gently pries the letter away from my fingertips.
I silently watch her throw it in the fireplace. As I watch the paper crinkle and burn, I wonder how my future will turn out. Whether I will ever be able to escape this place with my life intact, and whether Bruno still wants me dead.
Finally, I pick myself up and walk over to the painting of Adrian. I force myself to stare right back into his cold, calculating gaze. I've painted him lifelike and vivid, so much so that the sight of him like this scares me, yet fills me with need. I don't want to admit that I still have feelings for the man. I've fought this attraction between us since I set foot in the Bernardi Estate, and I'm not going to stop until I feel absolutely nothing for Adrian Bernardi.
Yet, the thought of being away from him fills me with dread and regret.
But I need to get out of here, no matter the cost. Staying at the Estate means one thing and one thing only—my untimely death.
And I'm too young to die.
11
Adrian
My brother Ryder and I are being driven to the home of the Carluccis, and I don't know which one of us is hating this more.
I don't fucking like leaving Marzia behind with only the mute maid there to guard her. I don't trust my father anymore. I've seen firsthand what he's capable of.
As for Ryder, he seems pissed off his womanizer lifestyle has been interrupted for an occasion like this—one that doesn't even concern him directly. "I hate this," he mutters for the millionth time.
"Stop complaining." I grunt. "I don't like it either."
Just then, the driver pulls up in front of the Carlucci Villa, and the doors are opened for us.
I step out of the limo, buttoning my black jacket as I examine the building in front of us. The Carluccis are certainly loaded, but just as I suspected, even their home screams nouveau riche. There is no class in the design of the outlandish building. It's overly primped, with a garden so laden with blooming flowers it almost looks ugly. The hedges are cut into decorative shapes, everything is tacky and gilded, and the whole place says… We have money and you don't.
Fighting the urge to groan again, I force myself to stride forward where a small, plump man is awaiting my arrival eagerly.
He shakes my outstretched hand with gusto, rushing over himself to explain who he is and where I am. His name is Gustavo Carlucci and apparently, he's my bride-to-be's father. Without taking a single breath, he explains Nicoletta is turning eighteen in two months, tells me her mother died when she was a little girl, and that he took special care in sheltering her from the world any way he possibly could.
He even explains Nicoletta has been sheltered so much, she hasn't seen another man between the ages of fourteen and sixty-five ‒ except for him of course ‒ since she was five.